Britain Poems - Poems about Britain

Oh farage do give it a rest..' at last things are more quiet Yet you have to beat your chest.' How much did you cost? Who has paid your price.? You turned your back and are Part of the pack..While Tommy is stuck; in the jaws; of their Vice..I ask you hold that thought for a moment..If its a Thing...

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Come her! Go there! Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff! Do this! Do that! Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff! Eat seed! Find nut! Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff! Have chicks! Make fat! Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff! Through twig! Through leaf! Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff! My song! I sing! Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff! On wing! On foot! Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff! It...

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I wonder. I wonder what will happen when all the English dictionaries are burnt and Shakespeare is abolished as FAR RIGHT and Racist, and when the Beatles are vilified for 'She Loves You' when it should have been 'they them love you'. When the battle of Britain Begs an unreserved apology. When the British inventions Are cast aside...

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On Englands streets its people gather in ones twos Threes in their thousands for this matter.' To stand and March to celebrate the very essence that made their country great.' There will be burghers plumbers tailors and Farmers; surveyors councillors barbers, and no harmers Ex police and soldiers too.' Professors lecturers and maybe you? Clever and not so (...

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Could it transpire? To set a nation on fire.? Could Lowe drop The boom.? If it happens? It must be soon.' In the cauldron Of insanity in this un-normal and dystopian governed inhumanity.' Can the damo-clean blade be turned upon who Had it made in turn? Strike the iron thats been made hot.' Be bold And decisive and tear...

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At our junior school in Yorkshire. I had turned up late for class three times So our strict class teacher, called Miss Howarth Sent me to the head mistress to be strapped. Miss Kershaw then gave me six of the best. I started crying from the stinging pain. Miss told me that if I don’t stop crying She then would give me...

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THREE BRITISH ANGELS Three daughters of Britain, in a dance class, their lives were viciously taken! But, sadly, for many of us, you are, in our silence, inhumanelly forsaken! You see, as poets, our hands, forced to pen of...

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If I were the Antichrist, I would wait and watch, When God gets tired of humanity He would unleash me, his scourge. I would begin by encouraging 'peace' After all I know all tongues, I would ban all forms of currency, Take you back in time. I would open borders and encourage love, No visas, passports, attestations required, Do What you Will, For that is...

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As aspiration seeks to take its toll, your mass flotilla salvaged sons of war. ‘Twas but a feat the angels will extol though Satan’s army rallies at your door. Your youthful fit have vowed to serve the Crown. They muster arms to keep his wolves at bay. Your British proud must hold this hallowed ground for nothing but the Channel bars...

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A pulsing motive met them in the sky to paint his birds before they flew your way, then talons reared, determined to deny the devil’s flying wolves a win this day. Your heaven’s filled relentlessly with fire as deficit engulfed your salty air. Persistence waned as days grew ever dire with no relief, for hell was everywhere. But now the beast has set...

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A dogged stance had made the beast retire as disappointment filled the devil’s veins. Though Brit resolve repulsed his hellish fire this demon’s air of pompousness remains. His raging storm had faltered in the face of fierce resistance, reckoning with force. And, on a whim, to circumvent disgrace, his arrogance would seek another course But fate can be a devil in...

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GILDAS TRANSLATIONS These are modern English translations of Latin poems by the English monk Gildas Sapiens (“Gildas the Wise”). “Alas! The nature of my complaint is the widespread destruction of all that was good, followed by the wild proliferation of evil throughout the land. Normally, I would grieve with my motherland in her travail and rejoice...

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suddenly a commotion a score of gulls screaming wings flapping, gliding, wheeling then within half a minute away into the sky behind the houses what and why I asked myself but found no answer, as usual a pattern of small copses gaunt, unloved trees, perilously leaning against each other roots drowning in pools of muddy water picture of neglect and decay and then in their midst a carpet...

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On the cliff at the Worm’s Head High above the horns of the bay I see the surfers ride great waves With horses’ manes That ever fail, but never end In the strong Atlantic surge In the estuary at Dartmouth Where the oyster boats dredge Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance Great nets of shells are hauled up And poured out...

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just like foxes they arise from dark places they come to fight and scavenge As they start to climb they become stronger in a pack. the power they have goes over their heads there's no way they'll turn back, its a two way game and there putting us through a test as the rise of inflation gets higher, were left...

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